


Language of Flowers

by sugarskies



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Canon Het Relationship, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarskies/pseuds/sugarskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles. "The roses remind him of her, beautiful but dangerous."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clove

The roses remind him of her, beautiful but dangerous. They have to be picked carefully, or their caretaker may find themselves pricked by the thorns that came with that beauty.

She is relentless in their game when they begin. From the moment Battler had seen her portrait, he had admired her beauty—the mysterious, but dangerous feeling he had felt from the portrait the moment he laid his eyes on it.

No wonder Grandfather fell for her.

* * *

The roses remind him of her, withering away slowly as blue truth after blue truth injure her one elegant form. But, the liveliness that had been there once before is gone, and the woman who was once proud, strong, dangerous is slowly dying. Petals fall one by one, and it’s beginning to become harder to watch as she becomes weaker.

* * *

The roses remind him of her. The petals are scattered throughout her grave, beautiful and dying. Rokkenjima’s garden had lost its beauty—its liveliness when the storm hit.

However, even now—

—He thinks that her radiance hasn’t faded in the slightest.


	2. Rosemary

In his dreams, the worries of his life has vanished—gone without a trace. It’s as though he’s died rather peacefully, and this is nothing more than heaven. The gold-soaked land was one that finally welcomed him. It was soothing, yet there was something that silently told him that the last thing he wanted to do was disturb the magic in this land.

“”Happy birthday, Battler-sama!”” The Seven girls shout at once, their faces beaming happily as they all presented gifts.

He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, and as usual, he made a ridiculous comment about his ‘Ass-Neechans’.

Though, as expected, it wasn’t too long before the girls went into a fight over who gave Battler a present first.

Though, he had eventually broke up the fight.

… Though, he thinks that there is something missing. It was strange that they hadn’t made themselves known yet. Normally, they’d be the first, wouldn’t they?

And at that thought, it’s as though his musings are answered—and he spots her easily as she runs through those golden-colored gardens, holding her dress up in order to run faster, faster still. It was hard to miss her, always—with the way she would shine brighter than anything else in the land.

And after what felt like an eternity of waiting for her to get to him, she spreads her arms out and runs to him, nearly knocking him over with the impact of their sudden embrace.

“… You’re late.” He mumbles.

“S, Shut up, shut up! It’s your fault, you idiot! If you hadn’t been so content with receiving just about everything!”

Though, that wasn’t exactly true. However, Battler had been a poor liar.

This was the only thing he had needed.

* * *

 

Toya is awakened by the feeling of a light, neatly wrapped box landing on his lap, Ikuko’s face smiling lightly at him.

“Somehow, it felt like today would be right to choose a birthday for you. We never did pick, did we?”

He smiles. “…. We never did, no. Thank you.”

By the time he had awakened, the dream he had was long gone.

And yet, he still felt as though something was missing.


	3. Jonquil

The only thing that Battler can focus on, can even think about when he comes home, is the smell of something burning. He barely manages the words ‘I’m home’ before his mouth forms a fine line, brows furrowing.

He already guessed what happened, and he was already grateful that the house hadn’t caught fire in his absence.

Despite that his home was still in one piece, however, his pace quickens remarkably. He throws his shoes off out of habit at the entrance. “Beato?”

“Ah— Don’t come in, don’t come in—!” It was a voice that he wouldn’t listen to. In fact, when he entered the kitchen—

…. Was that a pot being thrown in his direction? Whatever it was, he dodged it easily enough. “H-Hey— What the Hell?!”

“You idiot! Have your ears started to work as poorly as that brains of yooours? Didn’t I tell you not to come in?” … As usual, her reaction to being disobeyed in any way was completely undignified. She almost looked desperate.

“Sorry, sorry.” He looks behind him, cringing at the now-fallen object that had been thrown at him. “… That smell was pretty hard to just ignore. What are you doing, anyways?”

“Do you really expect me to tell you after you—”

… He needed to approach this situation carefully, cautiously. Normally, when he came home from working all day, his wife would already be in a sour mood from being at home alone all day. And in those bad moods, she was especially temperamental. “You were cooking, right?” He fights the urge to cringe at the thought of it. She tried again, and again, but she was still a pretty poor cook… “The Great Beatrice-sama cooking again, huh? What’s the occasion this time?”

“W… Well…” She had wanted to keep it a secret until it was officially White Day„ really. And, she had managed it for a while! “… We haven’t… properly celebrated White Day yet, correct…?”

…. Oh, boy.

He remembers the first time that they attempted to celebrate that holiday all too well by now.

“—I get it. That’s… pretty impressive.”

“…Huh?” He wasn’t going to laugh, or say something like ‘you could’ve burned the house down!’ or ‘next time, wait until I get home before you try anything like that.’

Battler approaches the finished results - you could hardly tell that the cookies were supposed to be cookies - in fact, they looked like nothing more than black lumps.

It looked horrible.

But, still. He picked up one of those lumps, placing one in his mouth.

Awful. The taste was bitter. If he hadn’t known what these were supposed to be for, he probably wouldn’t be able to even start to guess what they were supposed to be…

He only hopes that his expression at the moment isn’t betraying him. He only hopes that Beatrice will be satisfied with his reaction. And he prays that he’ll be able to keep his life after he tells her what he thinks after he went against her orders once—

“It’s good.”

“… Really?”

He grins, managing to swallow the finished creation. “—Really.”

At that moment, her entire face lit up in childish glee. The grin on her face was as undignified and childish as her next words. “O… Of course they are, of course they are! Well, you shouldn’t expect anything less from the Golden Witch herself! Why, you should be grateful that I even took a moment to make anything for you, Batteeeer!”

He approaches her, ruffling her hair lightly. “… Yeah, thanks, Beato.”

Terrible or not, he thinks, seeing her react so happily was worth it.

… But, he really needed to find a way to keep her out of the kitchen from now on.


	4. Rosemary

Sometimes when he dreams of her, he dreams of people dying. He dreams of people rebelling against her threats - her murderous intents. He dreams of those who courageously fighting for their life dying again, and again. He dreams of his own death, a repeated, endless game of torment and sadness.

Sometimes when he dreams of her, he dreams of her laughter. He dreams of bickering back and forth, and he dreams of her childish tantrums - the way her lips would purse together in a pout, or confusion. the way her eyes would light up the moment he fought back, braver and more determined than before.

Sometimes when he dreams of her, he dreams of her hand in his - that familiar warmth. He dreams of how his heart swells, and how he wants to treasure that moment. forever, endlessly.

But, when he awakens, the dream is out of his reach.

He tells Ikuko about the mystery woman. inspiration came to me last night, he says. I can’t wait for you to read what i have in mind, he comments.

He doesn’t know if it’s a memory. Perhaps, he thinks, that’s why he’s hurrying to write. That’s why his fingers scurry across the typewriter, writing his dreams down word for word.

He doesn’t want his dreams to leave his memories, just as everything else has.


End file.
